


I’m Going Crazy and I’ve Been Awake for Days

by FlashFlashFlash



Series: Anaemic!Patrick [5]
Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: 2017 FOB, Anaemic!Patrick, Canon-Compliant, Fainting, Illness, I’m not sure about the ending, Mania Era, Touring, again with the fuckin proofreading, extreme fatigue, he passes out okay, idk what else to tag, iron deficiency
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-01
Updated: 2018-01-01
Packaged: 2019-02-26 13:08:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13236369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FlashFlashFlash/pseuds/FlashFlashFlash
Summary: Declan takes a tumble, and Patrick’s low on iron. Elisa’s got her hands full. Maybe Pete can help?





	I’m Going Crazy and I’ve Been Awake for Days

**Author's Note:**

> Title comes from “One Of THOSE Nights” by The Cab, ft. Brendon Urie and Patrick Stump. Not sure about this ending... help? 
> 
> —  
> Happy New Year! I almost thought I wouldn’t get this up until Wednesday, but some words of encouragement from laudanum_cafe spurred me on! Tally ho, folks! 
> 
> Aminta xx

Three tiny bodies raced along the venue’s smooth grey floor, a worrying concrete which rather terrified Meagan as she chased them, unsure of the reliability of her first aid skills in the event one of the toddlers were to fall and hurt themselves. The soles of her sneakers made squeaky noises on the floor, which were masked almost entirely by gleeful, young laughter. 

“Don’t run too fast!” She called, as she and the children rounded a corner. 

Too late, Meagan. Far too late. 

The sharp turn had offset the balance of the group’s youngest, sweet little Declan, and he had tripped, his pale little arms shooting out in front of himself, his pale little legs hidden and, thankfully, protected by his blue jeans, the ones Elisa had struggled for so long to get him into. His head his the floor, and it was as if Meagan could feel the impact in her very blood. Ruby and Saint kept running, unawares, but Meagan only cursed herself as she bent over the boy. 

If any child were to fall, it would not have been her own. Never. She is not so lucky. When Declan begins to cry, Meagan wants to join in, the fear of returning a tearful Declan to a fretting Patrick clouding her mind. 

“Don’t worry, Declan,” Meagan puts her hand on his back. “Saint! Ruby! Come back!” 

“Mama!” Declan cries. Meagan scoops him up, onto her hip, and begins to walk the plank back to the dressing room, already a little scared to see that motherly look grace Patrick’s brow. She makes Ruby hold her hand, sure she can’t take another set of disappointed parents. 

-

“Honestly, Meagan, it’s fine. It’s not your fault,” Elisa says, after rocking Declan to sleep with a small dose of children’s pain medication for his bumped head. “Leaving any of us alone with all three might have been a plan for disaster.”

“He just hit his head so hard, I was terrified he’d got concussion or something,” Meagan fiddles with the zip of her jacket as she lays against Pete in a loveseat. Marie sits on the floor with Saint and Ruby, stacking number blocks. Joe and Andy are messing around with a set list, drawing arrows willy-nilly and adding things in.

“Don’t mess with that set too much, you know Patrick’ll flip if you don’t ask him first,” Pete warns jokingly. Joe just shrugs. Andy stays silent. 

“Where is Patrick? I thought he was in here when the toddler Olympic sprints began?” Meagan turns to Elisa. “I thought he’d be ultra-protective if Declan fell over, sixth sense or something.” 

“He wasn’t feeling well, so he went to lie down a while ago.” Elisa calmly strokes Declan’s hair. “I think it’s because the doctor in Chicago put him back on the capsules, and they’re not working so well.”

“He gonna be okay for the show?” Andy looks up from debating whether Centuries should be played before Sugar or not. 

“I think so, I’ll need to get him up pretty soon, so he’s not too sleepy at sound check.” 

“I’ll go get him, you wouldn’t wanna wake up Stumperino over there,” Pete chuckles. 

“That’d be great,” Elisa smiles gratefully. “Thanks, Pete.”

“Oh my god,” Joe laughs. 

“Did you just-“ Andy snorts. 

“You said it! You said it!” Marie points excitedly, accidentally knocking over a tower that Ruby was particularly proud of. 

“Wow, you walked right into that one,” Meagan smiles. 

“Yeah,” Elisa sighs defeatedly. “Yeah, I did.”

-

On the bus, in the back room with a big bed, Patrick lays, curled up under the comforter, sweating just a little, too stubborn to discard his fleece-lined hoodie. His head twists, turns like a spinning plate, even with his eyes closed. He couldn’t open his eyes even if he wanted to, it’s too much work. He’s too tired. He can’t move. 

When Patrick hears the door of the bus click open, and footsteps treading inside, he prays for it to be his wife, coming with cold, damp flannels, cashews and kind words, but as the footfalls draw closer, louder, they’re too shuffly, too close together, lacking the clean ‘click clack’ of Elisa’s expensive shoes. 

Pete. 

Yeah, okay. Pete works too. 

Still, Patrick doesn’t want to talk or get up, so he burrows further into the covers, whimpering a little. He hugs the weight around his belly, rubbing his thumbs over the cotton of his t-shirt for comfort. The footsteps stop, and the handle turns, a little creaky, then the door cracks open. 

“Patrick?” Pete calls softly. Patrick whines in response. “Can I come in?” Another whine. “I’m gonna take that as a yes,” he says, before pushing the door open further and stepping into the darkened room. Kneeling down at Patrick’s bedside, and fiddling with the light dial until there’s a low, warm glow in the room, Pete asks, “how are you feeling?” 

“Mmpfffh,” Patrick groans, and cracks one eye open. “Shit,” he says simply. 

“Alright, fair enough.” Pete reaches out to check for a fever. “You’re a little warm. D’you feel sick?” 

“Maybe, I don’t know.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” 

“I’m not gonna be sick, but my stomach feels weird,” Patrick concludes, leaning a little further into Pete’s cool, lingering hand. Pete frowns. “Like travel sickness or something.”

“Okay, you think you can get up? Sound check’s in an hour, and Elisa wanted to see you before, but Declan’s sleeping in her lap. She didn’t wanna wake him.”

“I don’t wanna get up.”

“That’s not the question. Can you?” 

Patrick nods slowly. ‘Progress,’ Pete thinks. He slides a hand under the covers to Patrick’s waist, pulls his legs over the edge, and guides him upwards, into a hunched sitting position. Patrick brings his hand up to cover his face. “You good?” An uncomfortable grumble tells Pete all he needs to know. “We can wait.” 

Sweat barrels down Patrick’s pale expanses of skin, chilling him to the core, yet doing little to soothe the furnace within. He breathes deep, slow breaths, eyes shut, trying to stopper up the dizziness and keep a level head. He opens his eyes a few seconds later, once he feels a little better, and sees Pete smiling up at him, pitifully, sympathetically, sadly. 

“Ready.”

And then, they’re off, slowly at first, still shrouded by the stuffy air of the tour bus after too many of the ‘I’ll shower later’s and ‘doesn’t smell that bad’s that come with touring. But, outside, they gain a little speed, the fresh air filling Patrick’s head, flushing away the deep mustiness of that warm bed, refreshing, awakening. Patrick can breathe again, clean air filtering through his lungs, and it doesn’t stop when they head back inside because the air conditioning, oh, the air conditioning! It’s cool and crisp and it’s everything he needs until-

Until it’s not. It’s fine until there’s too much air, he’s floating, lightheaded, and everything tingles. They make it about ten metres from the dressing room door before Patrick starts to fade, to feel sick, to falter. 

“P-Pete...” Patrick breathes, stumbling into the wall, grabbing at his friend’s shirt. He squeezes his eyes shut, beginning to slide down the wall a little, but Pete leans forward and grips at his shoulders to stop him. “I don’t-“ Patrick swallows, eyes still shut. “I don’t feel good,” he pants. 

“Dizzy? Faint? Sick?” Patrick just grumbles in response. Pete gently lowers him into a sitting position against the wall. “Okay, okay, I think you need help, you’re really fucking pale, Patrick -I’m gonna yell for help okay?” Pete gently pushes Patrick’s head between his knees. “ELISA!” Pete roars. Patrick winces, palms sweating. “ELISA!” 

Leaning from the dressing room door, Elisa looks confused, just looking at Pete all crouched down and panicking. Then she sees her husband, sweaty and pale and all together not good, and her heart breaks a little. She’s by his side in an instant, patting his hair and whispering to him even though he’s not listening -he’s just slumped, panting into the denim of his blue jeans. 

“Patrick, baby, you’re okay, you’re okay...” 

That’s when Andy comes running, too. He stands just a few feet short of the scene, just watching for a few seconds, before he says, “Shall I call 911?”

“No,” Pete swallows. “He’s better off with us. All they’ll do is give him fluids and supplements, and we’ve got that here.” 

“Let’s take him in the dressing room and lie him down, yeah?” Elisa whispers, running the back of her finger along his cheek. “Andy?” She shuffles backwards. 

Andy steps forward, and Pete helps him to get his arms around Patrick’s body, which is growing gradually more limp. Elisa thinks that watching her husband being carried bridal style by another man should be funny, something she should laugh at, a story to tell her siblings, but she feels her heart burn a little bit, and not in that endless, beautiful way she usually feels in Patrick’s presence, but in a painful, staccato manner, clawing it’s way through her body, fuelled by petrol and anger. Why him? Such a sweet soul, laden with such illness; it always seemed so unfair to her. 

His head drops back, throat exposed over Andy’s arm, constricting his breathing just a little, but just enough for Pete to slide a hand under his neck to support the dead weight. He’s definitely unconscious. Andy walks slowly as not to disturb him, making worried glances at Pete periodically; the eye contact he receives in return is coupled with furrowed brows. Elisa holds the door open, and the room is quick to react.

“Daddy!” Declan sounds excited, and perhaps a little confused in Meagan’s lap. Why is Daddy sleeping? Isn’t he going to say hello? Why does Mommy look so upset?

“Is everything okay?” Meagan sits up properly in her seat, arms still around Declan, as she didn’t trust him not to scramble away, and wasn’t quite sure of the full extent of his head injury. The last thing she needed was another toddler toppling. He had woken up when Pete had screamed for Elisa, and his mother had hurriedly passed him on to her in haste.

“He’s passed out,” Pete says as he helps Andy set him down in the armchair Elisa had vacated. “He was walking fine all the way over, pretty slow, but fine, and then he went all pale and shaky, and he just...” Pete straightens up after propping Patrick’s head up with a cushion. His legs are hung over one arm of the chair, his shoulders leaning against the other. 

“That doesn’t bode well for the show...” Joe mutters, not spitefully, but in a concerned manner. 

“Not really the biggest concern right now, is it, though?” Marie scoffs. 

“I’m just saying, if we have to cancel, we better get on with it.” 

“Wait for him to come around,” Elisa instructs, smiling at her son to reassure him. “He might feel better.” 

And, so, they wait. 

They wait forever, it seems. Really, they wait for about six and a half minutes before Patrick’s cheeks pink up a little again and his eyelids begin to flutter. The low groan he makes reentering a conscious existence is almost inaudible, but it’s there, and immediately met by Elisa’s thumb stroking his hand, whispering his name, and waiting. 

“Shit...” comes that low, quiet voice. 

“Hey, how’re you feeling, baby?” 

“Don’t make me sing,” he whines. 

“Nobody will make you sing if you don’t feel up to it.” Elisa presses a kiss to his cheek. The skin looks waxy, blotchy and unnatural in some sorts, and when Patrick’s eyes fall shut again Elisa feels that burning feeling come back again, melancholy, bitter at first but with a sweet aftertaste, and she asks herself a question, a question she has asked herself many times before: Why? Just... Why?


End file.
